The Movie Review: 'Sin Nombre' and 'Adventureland'

By Christopher Orr

Death in film, even violent death, rarely comes as a great surprise.
It is ordained, prefigured, meticulously set in motion. It takes place
in settings where its presence seems natural--a battlefield, a house
with a serial killer in it--or as the result of a confrontation between
established antagonists. The music rises, the tension builds, and
whammo: The century-long celluloid slaughter claims another victim.

This is not the case, however, in Cary Joji Fukunaga's exceptional feature-film debut, Sin Nombre,
which serves as a chronicle of deaths unforetold. Fukunaga's body count
is not high, and it is not unsympathetic. But it is, with few
exceptions, startling--and not for the usual reason of a wallowing
camera. Quite the opposite: A character is alive one moment and then, by
intent or accident, is gone, almost before you have time to realize
what happened.

This is not to say that Sin Nombre (which is
Spanish for "nameless") is a particularly violent film, at least by
contemporary standards. Yes, there is violence in it, but violence is
not the point of it. Fukunaga's handling of these mortal episodes is
merely the most dramatic example of the way his film keeps viewers
off-balance. Though it is constructed from entirely recognizable, even
conventional parts, Sin Nombre repeatedly subverts
expectation. After opening with intimations that it will be an "issue"
movie about the plight of Latino immigrants seeking to cross illegally
into the United States, it quickly evolves into a hybrid of more popular
genres: a gangster movie, a road movie, a low-key romance. But each
time the film seems settled into a familiar arc, it instead unspools in
an unexpected direction. Characters who seemed integral become
peripheral (and vice versa), or depart the film altogether. Moreover,
each swerve is organic; Fukunaga's gift lies not in inventing clever
reversals, but in declining to provide us with the typical cinematic
cues that advertise what's coming.

For this reason, I'll be spare with plot details. (I would
also recommend avoiding the not-nearly-so-reticent trailer.) A Honduran
girl (Paulina Gaitan), her uncle (Guillermo Villegas), and her estranged
father (Gerardo Taracena) attempt the treacherous journey across Mexico
to enter the United States illegally. A young Chiapas foot-soldier in
the street gang Mara Salvatrucha (Edgar Flores), juggling a murderous
boss (Tenoch Huerta) and a pre-adolescent recruit (Kristian Ferrer),
tries also to carve out a secret space for his bourgeois girlfriend
(Diana Garcia). These two worlds intersect on a train--literally "on,"
not "in": these are freight-line roof-riders--that traverses Mexico on
its precarious journey to the U.S. border. The tale that subsequently
unfolds balances murder and mercy, retaliation and redemption.

Along the way, Fukunaga fills the frame with memorable
images: the savage rituals of the Mara gang, whose demonic tattoos would
inspire envy in the primeval warriors of Apocalypto;
the barrages of generous fruit and bitter stones with which locals greet
the rail-riding refugees who pass through their towns; the moments of
quiet compassion between strangers tossed together. It's rare for a film
to marry documentary authenticity with cinematic beauty, but Sin Nombre
manages the feat thanks to Adriano Goldman, whose work earned him the
Cinematography Award at Sundance. (Fukunaga walked away with the
directing prize.)

Like Fukunaga--the Oakland-born, Brooklyn-dwelling son of a Swedish-American mother and Japanese-American father--Sin Nombre
has a transnational flavor. The film is in (well-subtitled) Spanish,
right down to the credits; the uniformly persuasive cast includes both
professional and amateur actors; and Mexican stars Gael Garcia Bernal
and Diego Luna are among the executive producers.

As the film winds to its climax, it peters out slightly,
fulfilling rather than confounding expectations. Up to that point,
however, it is a jolt to the system, a striking reminder of the degree
to which most films spoon-feed themselves to us, preparing us for what
we're about to see as dutifully as parents presenting their kids with
the agenda for a family trip. We may guess where Fukunaga's freight
train is headed, but the journey provides unanticipated pleasures.

Greg Mottola'sAdventureland,
by contrast, offers up pretty much exactly what you expect: The Sweetly
Dorky, Virginal Hero (Jesse Eisenberg) whose dreams of a trip across
Europe must be set aside in favor of a crummy summer job at a Pittsburgh
amusement park; the Damaged, Beautiful Co-Worker (Kristen Stewart) who
doesn't quite believe she deserves to be happy; the Buff Other Man (Ryan
Reynolds) and Bodacious Other Woman (Margarita Levieva); the
Still-Dorkier Best Friend (Martin Starr); the Comic Support from SNL-Apatow
Troupers (Bill Hader, Kristen Wiig). If you think you can envision how
these pieces fit together, you are likely correct in every particular.

Yet for all its conventionality, Adventureland is a likable entertainment neatly executed. The first film Mottola has written and directed since 1996's The Daytrippers (has it really been that long?), it lacks the range of its predecessor, and also the obscene genius of Superbad,
the Apatow-produced, Rogen-penned comedy that Mottola directed in the
interim. But thanks to a witty script and good performances, it
transcends the familiarity of its components, if at times barely. (This
is one of those male-lens films in which all the pretty
girls hurl themselves at the nerd stand-in, explaining "I'd like to go
out with a nice guy for a change," and, still less probably, "You may be
the coolest and the cutest guy I ever met.")

As the amorously challenged protagonist, Eisenberg offers
his individual brand of awkward stutter, which mixes the braininess of
Woody Allen's with the self-doubt of Michael Cera's (though is never
quite as memorable as either). This is the college student that
Eisenberg's nervous high-schooler in Roger Dodger would
have grown to be had he never been exposed to the perverse tutelage of
Uncle Roger. Kristen Stewart is a tougher read as the troubled love
interest, relying on the same kit of tics--the bitten lip, the downcast
eyes--that got her through Twilight.
Whether there's more to her as an actress is not yet clear. And the
supporting cast is solid, with Hader and Wiig in particular offering the
laughs one would hope for.

The story is set in 1987, and there are times when it feels
that the film was created as an accompaniment for the soundtrack--which
features the Replacements, Husker Du, Crowded House, Wang Chung, and
generous helpings of Lou Reed--rather than the other way around. Still,
it's a pleasant enough musical stroll for those who remember the era.
One of Mottola's best jokes involves the inconceivable overplay of
Falco's "Rock Me Amadeus," an aural atrocity that almost drove my entire
generation to suicide. Indeed, it's hard to imagine a better use of
nostalgia: to remind us of the many things we miss from a particular
time, and the one reason we would never, ever want to go back.